


bad luck and broken soul

by apathetic_revenant



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Depression, Gen, Mental Illness, mental trauma, post-Mirror Mirror, talking it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 02:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17993195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathetic_revenant/pseuds/apathetic_revenant
Summary: Spock begins to notice a change in McCoy's behavior after his return from the mirror universe.





	1. break the mirror

**Author's Note:**

> just another in that grand old genre of TOS fics, the 'let's talk about that mind meld, huh'

It was like nothing had happened.

The first thing he did when they got back, back to where they were supposed to be, back to their world, the _real_ world, was head straight to Sickbay. _His_ Sickbay, not that chamber of horrors he had seen in the other universe. His clean, well-staffed, calm Sickbay. He checked every piece of equipment, every medicine in stock, everything in his office down to the last bit of miscellaneous junk in his desk, making sure everything was where it should be, trying to reassure himself that he was really back, really safe.

He was so happy to see Chapel that he hugged her on the spot, barely hearing her surprised “Leonard...?”

He made light of it all once he'd finally steeled himself to make it to the Bridge. Chatting idly like everything was normal, everything was alright, everything was _over._ Like the sight of Spock standing there all calm and poised didn't make him want to turn tail and run, even now.

He said something flippant about Spock's beard. Spock said something about the nature of humanity. How brutal it was. How cruel.

“I'm not sure, but I think we've just been insulted,” Jim said. He was smiling, that classic charming Kirk smile, full of confidence and ease now that everything had been resolved.

“ _I'm_ sure,” he said.

Later he went back to his quarters and threw up.

 

 It took Spock a while to notice anything was wrong.

He had been busy. Of course. He was always busy. Life on a Constitution class starship, the pride of the fleet, constantly pushing the boundaries of what was known in the universe, did not lend itself to a great deal of excess relaxation time. When he was not on duty there was research to be done, reports to be filed, a crew to manage and a captain to herd, and that left very little time to ponder things like the mysteries of Dr. McCoy.

Still...perhaps he should have noticed sooner.

As soon as the business on Halkan had concluded they had been sent off on another mission, to survey the work of a research outpost that was studying some interesting new lifeforms. The preliminary data was fascinating. _Dr. McCoy should find this intriguing as well_ , he had thought as he had first scrolled through the reports over a cup of herbal tea in his quarters. Spock would never have said out loud that he was looking forward to a conversation with Dr. McCoy, well aware that neither the doctor nor the captain would allow him to live that down; but from past experience he knew the doctor was likely to have useful input, and it would be illogical to not seek out additional scientific viewpoints that could be beneficial to his own research.

But the conversation, wanted or not, never came. McCoy sat through the briefing, quieter than usual, asking only a few perfunctory questions. Even at the time this struck Spock as odd, but he put it down to the illogical fluctuations of human behavior and moved on with his own duties.

If he was surprised that McCoy did not seek him out afterward to discuss the briefing—did not flag him down in a corridor or in the mess with his singular skill for picking the least opportune time for conversation—Spock let that surprise sink and disappear below the surface of his thoughts, which were too much occupied with other things. Most likely, he supposed, he had done something to offend the doctor. There was no point wasting energy on trying to decipher what it was; he had long ago realized that the patterns of McCoy’s moods and grudges formed a language that he would never speak.

But, of course, even on a ship as large as the _Enterprise_ , they could not avoid one another for very long. Once they arrived at the planet, the captain assigned them both to the landing party that would be visiting the planet’s preliminary outpost. This being an entirely sensible and expected decision, Spock did not give it a second thought.

McCoy, evidently, was of a different mind. As Spock left the briefing room he heard McCoy say quietly—so quietly he doubted a human would have heard it-- “Jim, can I go down later? I’ve got some things I need to finish up--”

“What do you have to finish up that’s more important than our _current mission?_ ” Kirk said incredulously, making no such attempt to lower his voice.

“There are some reports--”

“They can wait until you get back. You think I don’t know what this is about?”

“...What?” McCoy said after a moment, sounding guarded.

“I’m not an idiot, Bones,” Kirk said, a distinct note of irritation in his voice. “I know you’re in some snit with Spock, and whatever it is, I’m tired of it. You’ve been avoiding him. I haven’t seen you on the bridge for a week, and when we came into the mess hall last night, you got up and left as soon as you saw him.”

Spock hadn’t noticed that.

“I don’t know what the problem is now, but--”

“There’s not a problem, Jim,” McCoy said tightly. “I’ve just been _busy_ , that’s all.”

“Fine,” Kirk said. “If there’s not a problem, you won’t mind going down to the planet with him.”

There was a pause. Then McCoy said, very quietly and very flatly, “Yes, _Captain_.”

Spock abruptly realized that he had in fact been standing outside the briefing room eavesdropping, and that he was about to be found out. He strode away quickly, deep in thought.

So McCoy really _had_ been avoiding him. Why? Perhaps there was no point in attempting to solve that particular equation, but it was distinctly odd. He could not recall saying or doing anything recently that had angered the doctor—not that he was always terribly adept at knowing what would and wouldn’t anger McCoy. But usually if McCoy had a problem about something, he would make it very obvious. This behavior was more unusual.

It would have to be put to the side for the moment. The upcoming mission demanded his attention. He collected his tricorder and made his way to the transporter room.

The landing party was mostly a swath of blue, this being a mission that really only concerned the scientific departments of the ship. Hylis 3 was a peaceful, out of the way planet, with interesting ecosystems but no known sapient species nor any particular tactical significance, and as they were only visiting the already established base camp there was no reason to expect danger. The only spot of red in the group was Mr. Lincoln from Communications, who was going to ensure that the upload of information from the base to the ship archives went smoothly.

McCoy entered the room last, one hand tight on the strap of his own tricorder. He glanced at Spock, then just as quickly glanced away again. It did not escape Spock’s notice that McCoy took up a spot at the back of the transporter pad, as far away from Spock as possible, but he did not know what to make of this.

They beamed down into the open area in the middle of the outpost. At first glance it looked much like any other outpost of its size: the same white and gray prefab buildings, arranged in the same standard layout, with scientists and staff members bustling about here and there. The camp had been placed in a flat, open area, but trees could be seen not far off, swaying in a gentle wind, their foliage in a surprisingly broad spectrum of colors. Where the ground had not been covered by buildings or temporary plasti-canvas paths, it flourished with a soft purple plant life that resembled something halfway between moss and grass. The sky above was a light blue shading to violet, with one of the planet’s two moons visible, rising gold-white above the tree line.

The rest of the landing party were immediately taken with the place, looking around and murmuring to each other in appreciation. Even Spock privately thought it to be a very pleasant locale, although what no doubt seemed like a balmy spring climate to the humans felt rather chilly to him. Yet as he glanced around, taking in their surroundings, he caught sight of McCoy and was surprised to see that he was not looking about in appreciation or curiosity, but staring blankly straight ahead, a slightly queasy look on his face.

“Are you well, doctor?” Spock asked quietly.

McCoy jumped. “Oh...yeah, fine,” he muttered. “Transporter rattled me a little, ‘s all.”

Spock frowned. “The transport seemed no less smooth than usual. Did you--”

“Hello!” Both men turned with the rest of the party to see a woman hurrying towards them. She had warm brown skin, short dark hair speckled with gray, and a cheerful sort of face. Under an open Federation-issue jacket with an insignia patch on one arm she wore a baggy blue sweater and sturdy pants covered in pockets, most of which appeared to be full. There was a stylus tucked behind her ear. “I’m so terribly sorry, I meant to be here to meet you—things just keep coming _up_ , all day long--” She came to a halt in front of them with a sigh and smiled apologetically. “I’m Dr. Lorne, the head of this outpost—theoretically, at any rate. Oh dear, I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Only a few moments, doctor,” Spock reassured her. It was clear Dr. Lorne was anxious to make a good impression. The _Enterprise’s_ report on her outpost and its findings would determine whether they would receive the backing to make the outpost a permanent research station. Otherwise, they would have to leave at the end of the year.

He introduced the members of the landing party, ending with himself. Dr. Lorne shook their hands one by one; Spock steeled himself for the contact, but instead she gave him a Vulcan salute. He returned the gesture, pleasantly surprised.

“If you’ll just follow me, I’ll give you the grand tour,” Dr. Lorne said. “Won’t take long—we’re not a terribly large operation.”

She led them off towards the largest building, sitting in the center of the camp. This was the main lab, assembled from several pre-fab units put together to make a rather odd shape. The interior was clean and orderly. A little _too_ clean and orderly, in fact; Spock had a suspicion that it had been hastily made more presentable for their benefit. But all the equipment was well-maintained and clean, and if the scientists they spoke to were often a bit disheveled, they were obviously all highly competent in their fields.

After that they were shown the specimen room, where organism scans and small clippings of plants or fur were carefully stored for analysis, and the building that housed the base’s computer complex. (Spock was privately grateful when they left that one. That building was kept very cold.) There was also a small canteen and rec room, a row of dormitories, a couple of offices, and a garage where the base’s few vehicles were kept.

“Dr. Lorne,” Spock said once the tour had finished, “I would be interested in hearing what your plans would be for expanding this base should you be granted further backing.”

“Oh!” Dr. Lorne’s face lit up. “Oh yes, of course. Would you like to come along to my office?”

Spock nodded to the rest of the landing party, who split up to pursue their own lines of inquiry, and followed Dr. Lorne to her office. It was small and quite cluttered; in a Vulcan workplace such a mess would be borderline scandalous, but Spock had spent enough time among humans to recognize this as the kind of clutter generated by a workplace in constant use, rather than a slovenly one. The ways of human scientists still baffled him somewhat, but one thing he had learned since taking his posting on the _Enterprise_ was how much appearances could be deceiving.

Dr. Lorne proved to be an example of this principle. Her flustered exterior belied a sharply organized mind; her plans for the future of the outpost were detailed, thorough, and very sensible. Spock found himself enjoying the conversation. Dr. Lorne’s enthusiasm for her work shone through her every word.

They had been speaking for about forty minutes when Dr. Lorne’s communicator went off. She stopped in the middle of talking about native fungi, gave Spock an apologetic smile, and answered it. “Yes?”

 _“_ _Boss,”_ an excited male voice on the other end said, “ _Rosemary’s got a visual on a herd of_ _treedeer_ _not far from the lake. She says they’ve got young!”_

“Young?” Dr. Lorne exclaimed eagerly. “Is she sure?”

 _“_ _Sure as she can be. Says they’re either young or some other morphology altogether.”_

Dr. Lorne looked up at Spock. “This could be a big breakthrough,” she said. “I’m sorry, do you mind if I--?”

“By all means,” Spock said. “I would like to look around the base a little more.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She hurried out, pulling on her jacket with one hand while talking quickly into the communicator she held with the other.

Spock left the office rather more sedately and began to make his way back to the specimen building. He wanted to take a more thorough look at some of the organism scans that the base had collected.

The building was almost empty when he got there. Not terribly surprising; he suspected that most of the base staff were presently occupied either talking to the landing party or chasing treedeer. There was only one person inside: McCoy, sitting slumped in a chair and staring at a holographic display of one of the scans.

Spock frowned. Something about the scene before him felt wrong. McCoy could become absorbed by his work, to be sure, but it wasn’t like him to hide away in an empty room when there was a whole outpost full of people to talk to. Nor did he look like he was truly all that absorbed by his work at the moment. He was sitting with his chin propped on one hand, the other hand aimlessly tapping a stylus against the tabletop, staring ahead as if he wasn’t really seeing the display at all.

Was the doctor ill? Spock thought back to McCoy’s comment about feeling shaken by the transporter. It made no sense—the transporter beam had been smooth, flawless, and in all ways completely normal. There was nothing about it that could have disturbed McCoy, at least not anymore than his usual level of discomfort with transporters.

Perhaps there was something more going on than McCoy simply being in one of his moods. With some concern, Spock crossed the empty room towards the table McCoy was sitting at. McCoy either ignored him or didn’t even realize he was there.

“Dr. McCoy--”

 

He should have been enjoying this.

A nice quiet mission to a pleasant little planet where, for once, nobody was trying to kill them. It was the kind of thing he spent most weeks desperately wishing for, and this time he had gotten it, and all he could think about was how much he wanted it to be over.

But he wasn't enjoying anything lately.

His stomach, already bitter and acid from two weeks of living mostly on stress and caffeine, had not stopped churning since they'd arrived. He hadn't entirely realized until he'd set foot in the transporter room just how much he really did not want to use the damn thing. He'd always hated those machines (why was he the only one in the galaxy who seemed to realize how creepy they were, anyway?), but now his fear of something happening during transit had taken a backseat to a fear of where he was going to find himself when it was over. Stupid. Whatever had happened had been some billion-to-one alignment of factors that was not going to happen again. He knew that. He _knew_ that.

And yet--

For what felt like the twentieth time he shook himself and tried to focus. Normally he would find this fascinating. The 3D scan of the creature hovering in front of him suggested a biology more like a plant than an animal. It was something new and interesting and unique and any other day he would be poring over the data on the screen before him, trying to figure out what made it work. But now he was just staring at the scan, watching the creature loop through its recorded movements in a distracted daze.

He was so tired.

He'd tried, he really had. He hated taking sedatives, but he’d done it once it became clear that nothing else was going to help him sleep. And he had fallen asleep easier—and then, when the nightmares started, found it harder to wake up. He'd abandoned that idea pretty quickly.

Christine had noticed that something was up. Of course she had. She hadn't pushed the matter yet. She knew he had bad weeks sometimes, knew better than to make a fuss about it every time it happened. But this was going on two weeks, and not getting better, and worse than usual. She didn’t know why, but she knew. If this kept up, sooner or later, she would take matters into her own hands. She was too good of a nurse not to. And the last thing he needed was for her to go to Jim about it. Or worse, _Spock._

But he didn't know what else he could do to make things get better.

He had to keep going. He had to be functional. He had a job to do. He hadn’t broken down yet and he wasn’t going to now. These people didn't deserve to lose their project because he couldn't get his act together enough to make a report.

He had brought some stim patches with him, but taking one in his present condition would be...ill-advised, which was a polite way of saying that if Christine ever found out about it she’d beat him over the head with his own tricorder. It might be worth it, though. If he could make it through this, then he could go back and crash in his quarters. That would be rough, but if the only other option was collapsing on the job, he would take it.

He was too absorbed in this internal dilemma to hear the footsteps.

There was, very suddenly, a presence beside him and a voice— _that voice_ \--saying, "Doctor McCoy--" and something in his brain whited out.

He jumped up, kicking the chair in front of him as a barrier, both arms coming up to shield himself, and he was halfway through calculating whether he could hit his assailant with his tricorder hard enough to stun him and escape when he remembered there was no assailant. There was no danger. There was nothing wrong at all, saving the fact that he had just made a damn fool of himself.

Spock was staring at him.

McCoy forced himself to take a breath and ease into a less defensive posture. For a moment both men simply looked at each other. Spock seemed to be at a loss for words, for once. He just kept staring. He really wished Spock would stop staring at him like that.

"Did you need me for something?" he asked.

Spock blinked. "I…was only going to ask how you were progressing in your assessment," he said.

"Fine," McCoy said. "Just fine." And then, before Spock could think of anything else to say, he turned on his heel and left.

God _dammit._


	2. bury the shards

The rest of the mission happened more or less on automatic.

He found the rest of the landing party in the main lab—sans Lincoln, who was working on the uplink in the computer building—and made sure to stick close to the group, so that Spock couldn’t corner him and start asking questions. He didn’t really follow along with anything being discussed, but he nodded and even said something from time to time, though his voice sounded rather distant to his own ears. There was a magnificent beast of a migraine building up around his temples.

It seemed to take years, but eventually conclusions were drawn, and good-byes said, and the landing party gathered back in the open area to be beamed back up. The thought made his stomach lurch all over again. He tried to think about how good it would feel to be back on the ship, to go back to his quarters and be alone somewhere dark and quiet, and not think about what had happened the last time he’d been about to beam up to the _Enterprise,_ about what if he opened his eyes and he was back _there_ again--

“Are you alright, doctor?”

Dr. Lorne had made it back in time to see them off—there’d been some hullabaloo about a rare specimen being spotted or something. She was looking at him now with mild concern. Nice person, he thought a little hazily. He was glad that her backing didn’t depend entirely on his report. He didn’t know how good of a report he could write after this.

“Fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Between you and me, I’m not real fond of transporters.”

“Ahh,” she said knowingly. “I know how you feel.”

 _You don’t,_ he thought. _Appreciate the thought, ma’am, but oh lord, you don’t know._

 

Spock did not immediately have time to analyze the encounter with any depth. There was a great deal of work still to be done at the outpost, and after that a preliminary report to be filed, and the individual reports taken by the science department to be properly uploaded and cataloged. He judged that the matter was not so urgent that it could not wait until those time-critical tasks were done.

But no longer.

Ordinarily, with so much work still to be done, he likely would have continued working on his own after he went off shift, or else begun some personal investigations into the interesting new data. Instead he went back to his quarters and turned his attention to a different type of research.

The doctor’s behavior at the outpost had been an anomaly serious enough to require attention. For all that he did not understand much of McCoy’s behaviors, and doubted he ever would, he had by now observed them enough to identify the general trends. For McCoy to react to him with irritation, anger, sarcasm or rebuke all fell within those trends.

 _Fear_ did not.

And yet it had been fear that had been written, briefly but clearly, in McCoy’s expression, in every line of his posture, in the way he had moved away so quickly and defensively, as if expecting attack.

It was not something that Spock was used to seeing in the doctor at all. For all that McCoy was usually the first to grouse about danger or bitterly predict disaster, in the face of real threats he was normally quite calm—or, if not calm exactly, seemingly more _irritated_ than frightened. Certainly this was not a reaction he had ever shown to Spock. Spock had often found humans to be slightly intimidated by him, but McCoy had been almost aggressively unintimidated from the moment they had first met.

The only logical conclusion was that something had happened to change the doctor’s behavior. But what? Spock could recall no recent interactions that would prompt such a change. Indeed, they had barely even seen each other lately.

Sitting at the desk in his quarters, he pulled up the ship medical logs. As first officer, he could access all of the ship logs at any time, but rarely did so; reviewing such things was more the captain’s purview than his. Now, however, he began to scroll backwards through the CMO logs, looking for anything out of the ordinary. As he did so he felt a strange twinge of guilt for what he was doing, which felt almost like an invasion of privacy. He put it aside. It was illogical. The CMO logs were made for the record, after all. They were hardly private business.

There was nothing of particular interest in the past week, only some perfunctory reports on minor crew injuries and the preliminary outpost data that had come in. The reports might, perhaps, have been somewhat terser than usual, rather lacking in the colorful turns of phrase the doctor was prone to, but not so much as to be terribly noticeable.

Then he came to the report from their last mission.

 

_S_ _tardate: 3.632.2_

_Subject: Diplomatic Mission to Halkan/Dimensional Transposition Incident (Further Research Pending)_

 

Spock paused. A suspicion suddenly bloomed in his mind.

He read the report very carefully. The information itself was not new; McCoy’s account of events matched what he had learned from the captain’s official report, and the unofficial one Kirk had given Spock over a chess game that night. But there was definitely something...odd about the report. The writing was clipped and bare, giving only the most necessary details. There were no comments or observations. If he had not known in advance who had been writing the report, Spock did not think he would have realized it was McCoy.

The only idiosyncrasy in the writing was the way every person mentioned was prefaced with either _ISS Enterprise…_ or _USS Enterprise…_ as if McCoy wanted to be especially sure that there could be no confusion between the inhabitants of the two universes. Illogical, he thought. The beginning of the report had made quite clear who their party had consisted of. It was not difficult to keep track of who was who. To need such constant reminding would require a lack of reading comprehension unlikely in any Starfleet officer.

Then…

 

_ISS Enterprise First Officer Spock knocked unconscious during struggle. Requested permission to treat him for injuries before leaving._ _Permission granted under tight time constraints as window to use the transporters was very narrow…_

 

Sulu and his men had arrived in the room then. Another assassination attempt, over quickly. McCoy did not describe it in great detail, but then, Spock had always found McCoy’s logs to be unconcerned with the specifics of combat encounters.

 

_Rest of party went ahead to transporter room, remained behind to finish treatment. During treatment, ISS Enterprise First Officer Spock awoke earlier than expected and ascertained that we were not truly from his universe. Was overpowered and taken to transporter room._

 

There was no information on how the other Spock had _ascertained_ this information. Nor did Kirk seem to know the details. _“He came into the transporter room dragging McCoy by the arm. Somehow he’d figured out who we were. Can’t get one over on you no matter what universe I’m in.”_ Kirk had smiled wryly as he’d said it; he didn’t seem to believe that anything had happened in that Sickbay besides the other Spock working out the answers on his own.

Perhaps nothing had. But McCoy’s behavior since indicated that _something_ about Spock’s counterpart had troubled him. Maybe he had come to believe that the other Spock reflected something about Spock himself, that the two of them had similar capacities for cruelty.

He would have thought that even McCoy had enough logic in him to understand that the inhabitants of the mirror universe were not the same as their counterparts. Spock had certainly not held the behavior of the _ISS Enterprise_ CMO against McCoy, any more than he held the actions of their counterparts against any of the _Enterprise_ crew. Nor did McCoy, as far as he could tell, seem bothered by anyone else; not Sulu, or Chekov, or Kyle, or anyone else whom he had seen commit atrocities in that other world. It seemed it was only Spock.

A human might feel...hurt, to be so quickly singled out for distrust.

Spock, of course, felt no emotion over such things. It was only that his...assessment of the doctor would have to be changed. For all of McCoy’s caustic remarks and heated outbursts, he had thought that the two of them had come to be…

Friends? It was still an uncomfortable word for him. Using it carried a twinge of shame over feelings he was not supposed to have. But he thought, at least, that they had had some degree of understanding. A lack of true hostility, at any rate.

Evidently he was wrong in that assessment, if McCoy was so ready to think ill of him over actions that were not even his own.

But of course, that was all irrelevant. More important was that this behavior was untenable. He and McCoy did not need to like each other, but they did need to work together. The _Enterprise’s_ functioning would be greatly diminished if the first officer and the CMO could not even be in the same room—which, despite all jokes to the contrary, they had previously been capable of doing.

He would have to talk to McCoy. It was...not a conversation he was looking forward to, exactly. But there was no sense in delaying it.

It was, by that time, rather late. He knew that McCoy would be off shift by now, although that in no way ruled out his still being in Sickbay. Still, his quarters were closer, so he would look there first.

The silence after he pressed the doctor’s door buzzer lasted so long that he had assumed McCoy was not there and was turning to go when the door finally opened. McCoy looked out at him, squinting blearily. As he saw who was at the door, a look of panic flashed across his face, and he drew back with a jerk. The moment was gone as soon as it had begun, but Spock saw it quite clearly.

Something about it struck an odd note in his mind, but he could not yet pinpoint exactly what it was.

“Doctor,” he said cordially.

“Ah...Spock,” McCoy said. He was still dressed, but had taken off his boots and overshirt. Spock could see the latter article tossed carelessly over a chair. The lights inside were turned down quite low, and were it not for the dim glow of a computer terminal Spock might have wondered if he had woken McCoy up. “Something I can do for you?”

“I have something I need to discuss with you.”

“Now?” McCoy glanced nervously behind him. The room was rather disordered, but somehow Spock didn’t think that was what was worrying him. “Can’t it wait til tomorrow? I’m pretty tired...”

He did indeed look tired— _very_ tired, and rather unwell--but it was obvious that this was an excuse. Spock shook his head. “I believe the sooner we discuss this, the better.”

McCoy eyed him for a moment longer. Spock expected an argument, but to his surprise the doctor’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Alright. C’mon in.”

He turned, raising the lights with a slight wince, and shuffled into the room. Spock followed and took a seat at the small desk. McCoy did not sit. Instead he stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, looking wary. “Well?” he said.

“Your behavior at the outpost today was unusual.”

“Was it? I don’t recall doin’ anything unusual.”

Spock arched an eyebrow at him. “You don’t recall that you nearly threw a chair at me?”

“Is that all?” McCoy snorted softly. “You startled me. It’s a thing that happens to humans sometimes, Spock, you might have heard of it--”

“Doctor,” Spock said firmly. “I have never seen you react so violently to being _startled_.”

McCoy shrugged. “So I’m a bit stressed lately. Izzat really worth all this rigmarole?”

“I do not believe that being ‘a bit stressed’ adequately covers the situation,” Spock said patiently. “In addition to today’s incident--”

“If you can call it that--”

“--you have been avoiding me.”

“Avoiding you? Don’t flatter yourself,” McCoy said. “I’ve been busy, that’s all. Haven’t had time to stop and chat much.”

“That has never seemed to hinder you before,” Spock said. “Circumstances have not been any more harried than usual this past week.”

“Just ‘cause _we’re_ not in the middle of some crisis doesn’t mean I can’t be busy. You don’t know _everything_ I got going on.”

Spock was growing tired of this. McCoy could be very good at deflecting when he had a mind to be, and he rather suspected that this conversation could go around in circles _ad infinitum_ without progress. It was time to cut to the chase. “Doctor, did something occur during your visit to the other universe?”

McCoy went still. “What do you mean, did something occur?” he said, his voice a shade too forced to be truly casual. “A lot of things occurred. Wasn’t exactly a picnic in the park over there.”

“Then let me be more precise,” Spock said. “Did something occur that has made you uncomfortable around me?”

“Uncomfortable?” McCoy raised his eyebrows. “Why d’you say that?”

“Because it is since returning from that mission that your behavior has changed. I...confess I did not truly notice until today, but in retrospect it is quite clear.”

McCoy let out a quiet huff of air. “You’re mighty concerned about all this. Thought you would have been glad to not have me bothering you for a while.”

“It is a matter of efficiency. Neither of us will be able to perform our jobs properly if we do not even interact.”

“I see.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well...I’m sure I can manage to _interact_ well enough to do my job, Mr. Spock, so don’t you worry about that,” McCoy said. “Is that all that’s troublin’ you?”

“You did not answer my question.”

“Question?”

“Did something occur which has made you--”

“You’re just not going to let that go, are you?” McCoy began to pace, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirtsleeves.

“I see no reason to ‘let go’ a question when I have not achieved an answer to it, no.” There was no response. Spock sighed. “Doctor, I should have hoped that even you would be logical enough to realize that the actions of the inhabitants of that dimension do not reflect upon the inhabitants of this one. Your own counterpart--”

“ _Don’t_ tell me about my counterpart, Spock,” McCoy snarled.

There was such vitriol in the words that Spock was momentarily taken aback. “Very well. But you realize, then, that--”

“Christ.” McCoy dragged a hand down his face, then spun on his heel to face Spock. “I know you’re not him. Alright? Is that what you want to hear?”

It... _was_ what he had wanted to hear, if Spock was truly honest. He could not say the same for the way in which it had been said.

Yet it seemed there was nothing more to be gained here. “Very well,” he said, standing up. “I shall expect to meet with you tomorrow to discuss the data we received today--”

As he moved towards the door, McCoy stepped backwards, away from him, but in the small room there was not very far to go.

He backed into the wall.

McCoy went white, his eyes suddenly wide with alarm. He seemed frozen to the spot, staring fixedly ahead. Confused, Spock stepped towards him, reaching out a hand in concern, and McCoy jerked away frantically, stumbled, and hit the floor.

For a moment Spock could only stand there, completely at a loss for what to do, afraid to even move lest he provoke the doctor further.

And he realized, at last, what he should have truly known all along. His difficulty understanding human emotions had led him astray; he had thought that McCoy’s behavior had come out of a belief that he held, that he had made a conscious and reasoned decision to no longer trust Spock because of what he had seen in that other universe. But there was nothing conscious or reasoned in that reaction. It was an instinctive, automatic reflex, a fear in which the doctor had no say at all...but was desperately trying to hide.

Something had happened. Something worse than he had thought.

“What did he do?” Spock asked softly.

McCoy covered his face with his hands. “Goddammit,” he whispered. “I never meant you to know.”

Spock considered helping the doctor up, but thought better of it. Instead he went to sit on the edge of the bed, giving McCoy as much space as he could in the tight confines of the room. McCoy did not stand, but after a minute he unfolded himself somewhat, sitting up with his knees drawn close to his chest and his hands clasped tight. It took another minute before he actually spoke.

“He was knocked out in the fight, in the sickbay,” he said. “We didn’t have much time before the window closed...but I...I can’t explain it to you, Spock. I know it’s not _logical_. But I couldn’t let him die. I knew what he was like, I _knew_ , but...that’s not the kind of man I am. I know that’s not the kind of man I am,” he added quietly, as if to himself.

Spock nodded. He knew this, of course, from the report, but he was not going to interrupt McCoy now.

“I thought I’d see to him and then leave while he was still out. But he woke up faster than I expected. ‘Spose you’d have to have a hard skull to live long on that ship.” McCoy twisted the ring on his little finger absently. “And...he knew by then something was up. I mean he already had suspicions but when he woke up after attacking the captain and he was still alive? Being treated? I...don’t imagine his...his, uh, usual doctor would’ve done that.”

No, Spock thought. Most likely not.

“Stupid of me. Should have kept a better eye on him. Should’ve...” McCoy shook his head. “Anyway, he wanted answers. Wanted to know why Jim had let him live...”

It was not a pleasant thought. Spock knew well how much stronger he was than McCoy. His counterpart would have had no difficulty overpowering the doctor. Yet McCoy had not seemed to be injured upon his return… “He threatened you?”

McCoy laughed bitterly. “Nah. He, uh, he didn’t bother with that part. He...” He swallowed hard. “Backed me up against the wall and...”

He made a gesture with one hand towards his temple.

Spock felt suddenly cold. “He forced a mind meld?”

McCoy looked away. “Yeah,” he said, very quietly.

It was even worse than he had anticipated.

Spock had never personally encountered the aftermath of a forced meld—it was, thankfully, a supremely rare thing to occur at all—but he  knew of the dangers that even a carelessly done meld could inflict, let alone a forced one. It was something all Vulcans had impressed upon them quite clearly in their early education, to ensure that they approached the experience with the seriousness that Vulcan culture had long ago realized was absolutely necessary. 

Perhaps he should have suspected. Should, at least, have not been surprised, knowing what he did of his counterpart, that he would be willing to commit such an atrocity. Yet the severity of such an act, the immediate revulsion any Vulcan would feel towards it, made it something he would not even have wished to contemplate. 

He certainly did not wish to contemplate it now.

“I’m sorry, Spock,” McCoy said.

Spock was startled out of his reverie. An _apology_ was the last thing he expected at the moment. “Sorry…?”

“It’s not—it’s not you. I didn’t...I _know_ you would never. I never thought it reflected anything in you.” He finally looked up, briefly, a sudden intensity on his face. “ _Believe_ me.”

Spock nodded. There was no doubting the sincerity in the doctor’s words.

McCoy sighed and looked away again. “But...we’re not all perfectly logical beings, I’m afraid. Some things don’t...don’t respond so well to rational argument. And I just. I. I couldn’t—I see you come into a room and I know it’s you, I _know_ , but my heart starts goin’ anyway and--” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I didn’t want you to think I was...scared of you. I didn’t—didn’t want to do that to you. I thought if I just gave it a bit of time, things would get better. But you found out anyway. Suppose it was too much to hope I could get away with this one forever...”

He had thought that McCoy’s behavior had come from distrust, even hostility. To learn that it did not should have come as a relief.

This was not what he would call relief.

“You did not mention this in your report,” he said at last.

“...No.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t want you to have to deal with this.”

“In what sense do you think _I_ would have to ‘deal with’ this situation?” Spock said, frowning.

The doctor rolled his eyes. “It don’t look good on a report, does it? First Officer Spock of the _Enterprise_ committing one of the most highly punishable crimes a Vulcan could commit?” He raised a hand, cutting off Spock as he opened his mouth. “Ah, now, you know and I know that it wasn’t _this_ First Officer Spock, and it wasn’t _this Enterprise_. But people have a funny way of reading things wrong when it benefits them to do so. Or just when it seems more interesting that way. Takes very little to start gossip, and once it gets out there, there’s no stopping it.”

“Among humans, perhaps,” Spock said. “Gossip does not concern me, Doctor. The facts of the matter are quite clear enough to anyone who should wish to know them.”

“Maybe it should concern you,” McCoy said. “I know there’s a lot of people keeping an eye on you, Spock. For a lot of different reasons, and not all of them good. Some people don’t much think a Vulcan should be second in command on a mostly human vessel. And some people...” He shook his head. “I’ve read enough of your files to know that there are folks back on Vulcan who...don’t think too highly of you even bein’ around at all.”

Spock stilled. He, of course knew this, had long ago come to terms with it. But it was...discomfiting, to hear McCoy speak of it so bluntly.

“That report’s not gonna go unread,” McCoy said. “That’s a wild enough adventure to make even Starfleet take notice. And a detail like that can be a weapon in the wrong hands. _Officially_ nothing would come of it, of course, even they’re not that stupid. But someone might get to saying that if _that_ Spock could do a thing like this, maybe it says something about _this_ Spock...of course it doesn’t, but to someone who wasn’t there? Who doesn’t know you too well? Who maybe has an axe to grind to begin with?” McCoy shook his head. “Best if it never gets out at all.”

As illogical as it was,  Spock was well aware that humans had a way of using information for their own ends, regardless of whether the true facts supported them. The doctor's concerns were...perhaps not unfounded,  as distasteful as the idea was. To leave that information out of an official report was not exactly best Starfleet protocol, but this would hardly be the first time McCoy had not followed best Starfleet protocol. 

Still…

“I understand your motivation, Doctor,” he said. “But...you could still have spoken to me about it.” 

Or perhaps not. It was more likely that McCoy would have gone to the captain to discuss such a trauma. Spock, of course, would have more information to help him, but was he really surprised that McCoy had not seen fit to confide in him, after all his complaints about how unfeeling Spock was? 

McCoy was silent for a while. Finally he said, “You weren't there, Spock. I know you've read the reports, and you met our counterparts, but...you didn't see that place.”

Spock blinked. “I fail to see why that is relevant. Do you believe me unable to understand your situation without having personally witnessed the other universe?”

“No, that's not what I mean. I mean…” McCoy chewed on his lower lip. “I didn't meet my counterpart, and believe me I'm damn grateful for that, but...I saw the shape of him. In that Sickbay. I saw...what kind of man he was. And I have to tell you, Spock, I lie awake cold at night to think that I share anything with him. Even if it's only a name and a face…” He shook his head. “I didn't want anyone else to...I didn't want to tell you what _he_ was like. Really like. What he was capable of. Jim thought he wasn't all that bad. That he was a man with integrity deep down. I’m sure that’s what he told you. It helped him to believe that, I think. He even had hope that maybe that Spock could make that place better. That Jim had talked him around to being...being better. And I didn't want to take that away from either of you.”

When the two of them had first met one another, Spock had felt that he understood everything significant about Leonard McCoy within the space of about one day. The man seemed to be the epitome of everything Spock found confusing and distressing about humans: he talked in idioms and spoke even when there was nothing  that needed saying, was causal about personal space, lashed out easily, complained about everything, was highly emotional and very,  _ very  _ illogical. He made his opinions on everything abundantly clear and seemed to have never controlled a single thought or feeling in his life.  Spock had not thought that there could be any hidden depths to the man, anything below that loud, outspoken exterior. The very idea felt, at the time, absurd. 

And yet there were such depths,  far deeper and more complex than he would ever have suspected at their first encounter.  Time and again Spock had been taken aback as, no matter how certain he was that  _ this  _ time he had McCoy all figured out, the doctor would do or say something that broke his perceptions. And McCoy had the irritating habit of revealing these things at the most inopportune times. 

He still sharply remembered the horror of that moment on Miri’s planet. He had broken off his discussion with McCoy over whether to use the vaccine, having decided that the doctor was simply, with characteristic stubbornness, refusing to accept Spock’s assessment over how dangerous such a test would be. He’d stepped outside to speak with one of the security personnel, heard the cry, rushed back in in time to see McCoy collapse to the floor,  saw the hypospray go flying, and realized in one terrible heartbeat what had happened...

_ “Why?”  _ he had asked afterward, after McCoy had finally regained consciousness in Sickbay.  _ “Why test it on yourself? Did you not believe it would be dangerous?” _

McCoy had rolled his eye s .  _ “Course I knew it was dangerous,”  _ he’d said, his voice still ragged.  _ “Knew what it might do, but...’m older than Jim. Older than those security boys. Once it started taking us...it woulda been me first.  _ _ And then...I might’ve hurt one of you.”  _ He’d closed his eyes tiredly.  _ “And I can’t be having with that.”  _

He’d reformulated his hypothesis about McCoy considerably after that. And yet somehow, the doctor still found ways to surprise him. 

As he had now. 

“ You...chose not to inform me of this,” he said slowly, “to  _ protect  _ me?”

McCoy shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah.”

“Doctor…” Spock began, uncertain of what to even begin to say.

Then he stopped, as he finally realized the significance of McCoy’s words. 

_ I didn’t want to take that away from  _ either  _ of you.  _

“You did not discuss this with the captain either?”

“Nah.”

“ Have you told  _ anyone  _ of this?”

McCoy shook his head.

Spock took a deep breath. McCoy had been dealing with the effects of a forced mind meld, for almost two weeks, completely alone. 

And would have stubbornly continued to do so, had Spock not finally noticed—much later than he should have--that something was out of place. 

Every horror story he had been told growing up about forced and failed melds, every symptom, every case study, every personal fear, all seemed to crowd into his mind at once.

For _two weeks_. Without treatment. Without aid. 

He would not even have thought that this was _possible_. 

“Doctor McCoy,” he said, when he had finally gathered himself enough to speak. “This...is not a burden you should ever have borne alone.”

McCoy shrugged, as if they were speaking of some mild inconvenience, a head cold or sprained ankle, not... _this_. “Maybe, but that’s how it is sometimes.”

“No,”  Spock said. “ No.  It  should not be so. It should not  _ have to be so _ .” 

McCoy only looked back at him tiredly, not bothering to argue but clearly not convinced. 

Something about his attitude towards all this was...unnerving. Knowing what McCoy had suffered even as he heard the doctor’s casual, weary acceptance of it...it was as if he stood before a man who was bleeding out from the inside and did not even care. 

“I do not believe you understand the severity of this situation,” Spock said. It was the only explanation he could think of. “The after-effects of a forced meld can be--”

“What? Emotional distress? Nightmares? Paranoia? Anxiety? Migraines? Difficulty concentrating? Anhedonia? Intrusive thoughts? Flashbacks? Alien memories or emotions lingering from the attacker? Persistent sense of dread or despair? A heightened sensitivity to and severe discomfort with any further telepathic effects or contact?” McCoy barked out a sound that was not quite a laugh at Spock’s taken aback silence. “I’m a _doctor_ , Spock. You really think I can’t look up a few symptoms? Vulcan research papers are damned dry but I had to wade through worse in medical school.”

“And...are you experiencing these symptoms?” Spock asked, after taking a moment to reorient himself. 

McCoy shrugged one shoulder. “It’s not as bad as it could be. I think...he wasn’t trying to hurt me, you know? I mean, he didn’t care if he _did_ , but it wasn’t his goal. He just wanted information. He could have, uh...he could have messed me up a lot worse if he’d wanted to.” 

“That does not make it any more excusable,” Spock said icily.

“Good lord, of course it doesn’t,” McCoy said with exasperation. “I just meant, I don’t think you have to worry about me going insane or anything like that. Some of the case files I read, I mean, they were...” He shuddered slightly. “I see why y’all are so serious about this. But this is a pretty mild case as far as they go.”

Spock frowned. He could not tell if McCoy was deflecting again, or just somehow simply not cognizant of the seriousness of the situation. “But you _are_ experiencing some symptoms?”

McCoy shrugged again. “Well...obviously. You saw that. But--" 

“Describe them.” 

“What?” McCoy shot him a look. “Are you a doctor now?”

“As you take every opportunity to remind me, no,” Spock said. “But on this particular subject I believe I may have some knowledge which do you not.” 

McCoy frowned sharply and Spock at first thought he would simply refuse to go on. But after a moment he said, “Been gettin’ some migraines, alright. And nightmares, for sure, and...I don’t know if it’s _paranoia_ , exactly, but sometimes it...feels like he’s _there_ , just, in the room, watching me, or following right behind me, and I know he’s not but I can’t shake it...” He rubbed at the back of his neck self-consciously. “And...well, the worst thing is...is getting a thought or a memory that’s...that I _know_ isn’t mine, and it’s...it’s….lord, it makes me wish I could scrub out the inside of my brain. Makes me feel...unclean inside.”

Spock nodded somberly. It was an expected result from such an encounter, but knowing that could only alleviate the sufferer’s distress so much. “Is there anything else?”

“I don’t know.”

“You...don’t know?”

McCoy huffed out a breath. “Well, I _mean_. Emotional distress? Persistent sense of dread or despair? How’m I supposed to tell whether that comes from this damn thing or if it’s just a regular old part of the day?” 

Spock sighed. “Doctor, please. This is not the time for your usual fatalistic attempts at humor.”

McCoy was silent for a moment. Then he said, quietly, “Wasn’t joking.” 

Wasn’t joking…? “I understand there are...many aspects of space travel, or of our regular missions, which make you uncomfortable or nervous...and I do not mean to dismiss that discomfort,” although he had certainly wondered often enough _why_ McCoy had chosen a career he seemed so obviously unhappy with, “but that is not the experience I am describing here. These symptoms would have more in common with the symptoms of a mental illness such as depression or an anxiety disorder--”

Spock knew he had said something wrong at once by the shift of McCoy’s shoulders and the slow look the doctor gave him. He caught himself thinking that he would have preferred it if McCoy were yelling or griping at him. That, he would expect. That, he would know how to respond to. For McCoy to be this quiet and still...it felt wrong, somehow, but more than that, it left him at a loss. All his usual tools for navigating a conversation with this most illogical and emotional of humans were suddenly useless to him.

“Is that right,” McCoy said flatly. 

There was a trap laying in wait there, he knew it, sharp and waiting to spring—but he did not know how to avoid it. 

“Yes,” he said. And when McCoy did not seem inclined to answer he plunged forward, “Therefore I must ask you again, please, if you are experiencing any such symptoms.”

“And therefore I must tell you again,” McCoy said dryly, “that I don’t know. Am I experiencing those things, yes. Is it because of the mind meld specifically—no idea. It hasn’t come with any neat little labels.” 

Spock frowned. He could see the point the doctor was making and yet the way in which he was making it was so circuitous that he felt he must have missed something. “If you have had those symptoms before this occurred, that would indicate that you may be suffering from a pre-existing disorder. Have you considered scheduling an evaluation for yourself?”

“Have I considered--” McCoy groaned and rubbed his face with his hands. “Spock, I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, alright? Been to as many evaluations as you could want, and got a nice little file with a bullet-point list of symptoms. Thank you ever so much for the advice but I know what I’ve got.”

“...Which is?” Spock asked after a moment, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Depression. General anxiety. The standard mix,” McCoy said. “It’s...sometimes it’s better, sometimes worse. Been a few times when it was real, real bad. Not so much recently. But it’s always there a little bit.” 

Spock sat there in silence, processing this information. It explained some things about McCoy’s behavior that he had questioned in the past: the mood swings, the tendency to assume the worst outcome of any given situation beyond all logic, the borderline apathy towards his own safety. All things which Spock had eventually decided were simply more parts of the doctor’s strange nature, which he had little interest in attempting to understand. 

“I did not know this about you,” he said at last.

“Well, no,” McCoy said. “It’s not a thing I usually go bringing up in casual conversation. Anyway, I get enough guff out of you about being illogical as it is.”

Spock was beginning to feel entirely out of his depth. “What part of this do you believe I would find illogical?”

McCoy laughed. “Spock, if depression ain’t illogical enough for you, then I’m sure I don’t know what is. You think emotions are bad enough, try having emotions for no reason at all. Even when you know there’s no reason, when you know they’re _illogical_ , when you know but you can’t--” He shook his head. 

“That...” Spock steepled his fingers, grappling with how to explain this, if he even could. “That is not the same thing. Vulcan philosophy is about control of one’s emotions, about not letting them guide one’s actions, about acting upon what _is,_ not what we would like to believe. It is not a denial of basic brain chemistry.”

“You coulda fooled me,” McCoy muttered. 

“In fact, you are quite incorrect to suppose to that I have no experience with unwanted emotion. Vulcan emotions are naturally very strong. That is _why_ we work to control them—because our history has taught us what can happen if we do not.”

“Yes, but...” McCoy waved a hand vaguely. “It’s still a thing you expect people to be able to do. I’ve seen you slip up before, Spock. It’s something to be embarrassed about. Ashamed. You don’t even want to acknowledge _physical_ pain. What was it I heard you say?” He smiled bitterly. “‘Pain is a thing of the mind. The mind can be controlled.’ Well, I’ve been told that often enough. Doesn’t always work out that way.”

This was wrong, this was all wrong, but he did not know how to explain any of it. “I...have never known _you_ to...” _To take any comment of mine on the matter to heart before._ “To be ashamed of having emotions.”

“Not generally,” McCoy said. “I like having emotions. When I can have ‘em I prefer to have ‘em as much as I can. Never understood why anyone would _like_ the thought of not feeling anything.”

“ _When_ you have emotions…?”

“I know. Hard to imagine, huh?” McCoy smiled sardonically, but it quickly faded. “But that’s the thing of it. It’s not always about feeling sad or scared. Sometimes...the _worst_ times...it’s about feeling nothing. Just...nothing at all. Maybe you go through the motions because you have to, but you don’t _care_. You _can’t_ care. Nothing’s interesting...nothing matters. That’s what I think of when you talk about not having emotions.” 

“Then...we have had a miscommunication,” Spock said. “That is not what the Vulcan philosophy advocates.”

“I know,” McCoy said. “I know it’s not, because you wouldn’t have a civilization if it was. You’re out here, rocketing around the universe, looking for new things, curious and interested...you care about things. I know you do. How you can keep on saying that doesn’t involve _emotion_ is something I don’t know. But it does seem to work out for you all somehow. Damned if I’ll ever know how.”

“Nor do I always understand how things... _work out_ for humans,” Spock said. “But the differences among us make the universe a far more fascinating place. Even if they can be...frustrating.”

“Infinite diversity in infinite combinations, and all that?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Yes, indeed. Doctor, we may disagree on philosophy to the end of our days, but I find nothing shameful about having an illness, nor would I ever seek to condemn you for not being in control of it. Even Vulcans acknowledge that there are some things that cannot be entirely controlled. We may not...wish to acknowledge this,” he admitted. “Any more than humans wish to. But it is a truth nonetheless, and illogical to deny. If you have believed that I would respect you any less for this, then...I regret that I have given you that impression.”

McCoy smiled a little. “Well. It’s an assumption I made. An illogical one, perhaps.” 

“Perhaps.”

There was silence for a moment.

“So,” Spock said eventually, “have you found that the meld...exacerbated any of this?”

McCoy sighed. “I’ve not been feeling great since it happened, no. But sometimes I just have bad weeks. So I really can’t say for sure where one problem ends and the other begins. I mean,” he added with a laugh, “I’m sure it didn’t _help_.” 

“But you have not taken any form of leave?”

McCoy looked surprised. “No? Why would I?”

“...Because you may need time to recover?”

“I’m not so bad off I can’t work,” McCoy said. “I’ll be fine, Spock. I’ve felt worse than this.”

The man was impossible. Spock stopped himself from asking when, exactly, McCoy had felt worse than this—the answer to that could only derail the conversation further, and he was not sure he wanted to know—and instead said, “Doctor, being capable of functioning does not mean you are entirely well, nor does it preclude the need for a recovery period.”

“Don’t come at me with that, you hypocrite,” McCoy fired back. “As if I don’t have to _drag_ you to Sickbay every time you get hurt, always insisting you’re _perfectly fine_ and _don’t need a physical_ and _your services are not required, doctor_ , even when you can barely stand up!” 

Spock was momentarily startled into speechlessness. He recovered quickly. “I am a Vulcan. I have healing abilities beyond those of a human, despite your apparent determination to deny this biological fact.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”

“My own behavior aside,” Spock went on, raising his eyebrows, “it is illogical to consider yourself exempt from the same standards you hold your own patients to.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because _I_ am a _doctor_ ,” McCoy said. “You may know a lot that I don’t, Spock, but when it comes to medical matters _I_ know what I’m talking about.” 

“Generally speaking, that may be true,” Spock said, ignoring the scandalized noise this prompted from McCoy, “but I have known you to have something of a blind spot regarding your own well-being.”

“Blind spot? I don’t have a blind spot--”

“Then why do you believe that your own health is only relevant so far as it impacts your productivity?”

“Because it has to be, alright?” McCoy snapped. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have a _bit_ of an important job here. The lives and health of four hundred people depend on me! _Your_ life and health depend on me! _Jim’s_ life and health depend on me! I cannot _afford_ to let some damn fool thing like this slow me down! So it hurts, fine! Lots of things hurt. _Life_ hurts. Doesn’t mean you get to stop living it.” He blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through his hair. “As long as I can keep going, it’s not that bad. It can’t be.”

“And what if you cannot keep going?” Spock asked quietly. 

McCoy just shrugged. “Thought you were the one concerned with efficiency anyway.” 

_ It is a matter of efficiency, doctor.  _

It was necessary, of course, for the ship to run as effectively as possible, he told himself. The consequences of any lapses of efficiency on a ship so large, and so often in dangerous situations, could be severe. Proper functioning of the _Enterprise_ was vital not only to its crew but to the Federation as a whole. As first officer it was his duty to ensure that. It was only logical to have such concerns in mind. No one would dispute that. It would not be untruthful to say that it was a concern of his, nor did he imagine McCoy would be surprised if he simply let the matter lie there.

Just as he had let the matter lie every time he had had a concern about McCoy’s behavior in the past two weeks. 

No.

“It is true that I am concerned with the efficiency of this ship, yes,” he said. “As you say, your position is an important one. It is naturally a matter of concern for me should you be impeded in carrying out your duties.”

“Right,” McCoy muttered. “Well--”

“However.”

McCoy stopped and glanced up in surprise.

“I...am also concerned,” he went on, hesitantly, this not being an area where he had much experience, “for your own sake. Speaking as--”

An old self-admonishment rose up against him and he had to grapple, for a moment, with the words that came next, words expressing a sentiment that he was not supposed to have, that he had been shamed for in the past. The culture to which he had been born and raised would disapprove of an admission such as he was about to make. But far more abominable to that culture—to _Spock—_ was standing by in the face of suffering and doing nothing. He knew what the man before him needed to hear, now, more than anything, and he would not refuse it. 

“Speaking as your friend,” he said. “I am concerned. For your health, and your peace of mind and heart. I would not see you suffer in this way.” 

McCoy stared at him. He started to say something, then stopped. 

“Speaking as your superior officer,” Spock went on, and McCoy immediately groaned and dropped his head to his knees. Spock ignored this. “I must insist that you take at least a short period of medical leave. Continuing like this is detrimental to your work, and it is detrimental to you.”

“I _can’t_ ,” McCoy ground out.

“There is no reason--”

“There’s a damn good reason!” McCoy sighed and rubbed at his temple. “If I take medical leave, I have to say what it’s _for_. And I’ve already told you why I’m not going to do that.”

Spock hesitated. Truthfully, he had not considered that angle. “You already seem willing to obfuscate the matter in your official records.”

McCoy raised his eyebrows. “Spock...are _you_ suggesting I _lie?_ ”

“I am suggesting,” Spock said, “that, as you would say, what Starfleet does not know will not hurt them.”

For a moment McCoy just stared at him in shock. Then he started laughing. Spock bore it out patiently; perhaps it would do the doctor some good. There was more than a little hysterical stress being released in that laugh.

“God, I wish I had that one on tape,” McCoy said finally, wiping his eyes. “This is different, though...it’s one thing to lie to the brass, they don’t know anything. But if I make a leave request, my _staff_ will see it. And they’ll know something’s up. They’re not stupid.”

“Indeed not,” Spock said. “But they are, in my experience, capable of immense discretion. And they care about you.”

McCoy frowned. “You’re saying I should tell them?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Spock said wearily. “Do I need to remind you that you have on your staff a doctor with a background in Vulcan medicine? It would be insensible not to at least consult him on this matter.”

“I know who’s on my staff, thank you very much,” McCoy muttered. He did not look convinced. “I’d _really_ rather not let on about this...” 

“I realize that this goes counter to the very nature of your being,” Spock said gently, “but if you wish to recover from this, you may have to trust other people to help you.”

McCoy scowled. “Hypocrite.”

“Perhaps.” Spock paused. He knew that what he was about to say next would not be well received. “That includes the captain.”

“What?” McCoy jerked his head up. “No. Jim doesn’t need to know about this--”

“Respectfully, doctor, if you truly believe that the captain would rather you suffer through this without his knowledge than be told an uncomfortable truth, I must inform you that your understanding of human behavior is not nearly as accurate as you profess it to be. He is your friend. He would want to know.”

McCoy said nothing.

“If you do not tell him,” Spock said, “I will.”

“Wha—you--you _traitor,_ ” McCoy spluttered. “You absolute— _fine_. _Fine_ , I’ll tell him, goddammit.”

“Good,” Spock said pleasantly. 

McCoy groaned and put his head down in his arms. 

It was an overly dramatic gesture, but the slump of the doctor’s shoulders hinted at a very real fatigue. Spock recalled that McCoy had mentioned nightmares. He wondered exactly how much rest McCoy had gotten over the past two weeks. It was easy for him to forget, sometimes, just how quickly insufficient sleep could add up for humans. 

“I have, in my quarters,” he said quietly, “a small supply of a Vulcan herbal drink which is...beneficial for telepathic stress. I do not know how well it would work for a human, and you will likely find the taste disagreeable, but there is nothing in it that would harm you. It may be worth a try.”

McCoy raised his head, blinking blearily. “I...Spock, no, you need that more than I do. Living on a ship full of noisy-headed humans...”

“Ordinarily that would indeed be true,” Spock said. “But not at the present moment. If it will give you some relief, I would be happy to share it.”

“Well...” McCoy shrugged. “What the hell. It’s worth a shot.” 

Spock nodded. “Are you ready to speak to the captain now?”

“Right _now?_ I...hang on, are you _chaperoning_ me? Do you not trust me to do this myself?”

“No,” Spock said. 

McCoy huffed irritably. “Fine. Give me...give me an hour. If I don’t finish this report soon it’s probably not gonna get finished.” 

Spock rather suspected this to be deliberate procrastination, but he allowed it. “Very well.” A thought struck him. “Doctor, I...do not wish to make you uncomfortable. If it would aid you, I will attempt to avoid you while you are...recovering.”

McCoy looked surprised. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, I don’t think that’s working anyhow.” He paused, looking rather ashamed. “It's not--I mean I don't—it’s not that you--Hell, Spock. I'm sorry about all this.”

“I do not take offense, doctor,” Spock said. “In fact I am...gratified that you went to such extremes to...protect me from knowing this. Illogical as it might have been,” he added sternly. 

McCoy nodded and looked away. “Well. Y'know.”

Spock nodded. 

“Anyway, I was mostly avoiding you so you wouldn’t notice anything, and well, that’s shot now.” McCoy sighed. “I think I just. Uh. Need to start getting used to you again. If that makes sense.”

Spock considered the matter. Human socializing was not exactly a strong point of his. He thought about offering to play chess, as he did with the captain, but somehow he doubted McCoy would find that as enjoyable as Kirk did. 

“There...are aspects of the outpost's research that I would be interested in discussing with you,” he suggested, after a moment. 

“Yeah. Yeah, uh, that--that would be good,” McCoy said. “Tomorrow, maybe? I'm...pretty wrung out right now.”

“Of course.” Spock rose, taking care to do so slowly. He would have to make a note to avoid any sudden movements into the doctor’s personal space. 

But when he cautiously offered a hand to help McCoy up, McCoy took it. 

An image arose in his mind of the holding cell in which they had detained the four inhabitants of that other universe that had been transported to the Enterprise. His attention had mostly been called to the Captain's counterpart, who had spent the entire time yelling and snarling at his captors, pacing back and forth, taking up space. McCoy's counterpart had stood at the back, quiet, unobtrusive, wary, but Spock had briefly locked eyes with him and been surprised at the sheer hatred that had burned back at him. This, he knew without a doubt, was a man who would be quite happy to see him dead on an operating table.

_ The very flower of humanity,  _ he had said,  casually, calmly,  unaware of how far the man in front of him would go to keep Spock from having to learn that very same truth about his own counterpart. 

Apologies did not come terribly easily to Spock, but sometimes they were needed. 

“Doctor,” he said slowly, “you need not lie awake at night worrying about what you share with your counterpart. I have seen him, and I can tell you with certainty that there is no resemblance.” 

McCoy looked at him for a moment. Then he smiled, very slightly. “And that's a logical deduction, is it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I suppose I have to believe it. Thank you, Mr. Spock. For...all of this.” 

Spock inclined his head. “Naturally, doctor. I shall return in an hour.” 

He left McCoy to his report and returned to his own quarters, thinking. He had time to begin some research before returning. It was unlikely he would find any information on the effects of forced mind melds on humans; he knew of no other examples of one even happening. 

But if he could find anything that would help, he would. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--the stardate for Mirror, Mirror is only given as 'unknown' so I just had to make one up for McCoy's report. it's probably not accurate.
> 
> \--an old superstition states that it is bad luck to break a mirror because mirrors reflect the soul, and to break a mirror is to break one's soul. the bad luck lasts for seven years because that is the time it takes for the soul to renew itself. however, this can be averted with certain actions such as burying the broken shards of the mirror.


End file.
